


forget the protocol, I'll take your hand

by firebrands



Series: ironbat boarding school au [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Drinking, Getting Back Together, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24289342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: Bruce makes good on his plans to train in preparation for the life he's envisioned, fighting crime.Unfortunately, Tony isn't part of those plans.They get together, break up, and somehow, after it all, find themselves together again.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Bruce Wayne
Series: ironbat boarding school au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753441
Comments: 24
Kudos: 142





	forget the protocol, I'll take your hand

**Author's Note:**

> this fic took me by the shoulders and screamed at me until i finished it.
> 
> title is from "I stand corrected" by vampire weekend.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Tony has managed to wrangle all of his scattered friends together, and they surprise him with a cake at lunch time.

“Happy birthday, Brucie,” Tony says, playfully kissing him on the cheek.

Bruce dips a finger into the white birthday cake icing, then swipes it on Tony’s nose. Everyone laughs, and someone smarter than all of them has a mind to hold the cake up before it’s eviscerated.

Later, back in Bruce’s room, Tony holds out a small box.

“Happy birthday, Bruce,” Tony says, and he looks a bit bashful.

Bruce can’t explain why he feels so scared.

He unwraps the gift, slow and methodical as Tony bounces on his heels. It’s an IWC—something Tony must have seen him eyeing when they were out in the city over Christmas.

“Tony,” Bruce starts, because _really_ , he could buy his own watches. He realizes he’s only using this tone as a strange sort of defense mechanism, but he doesn’t know why he’s feeling defensive. Well, he does. He does.

He remembers his father, a decade dead. One of the last things he said to Bruce, before that awful night.

* * *

Even before they’d kissed, Tony was already basically living in Bruce’s room anyway. So after Christmas break, it seemed to be the natural course that Tony would finally just end up sleeping on Bruce’s bed.

“I wish they’d given us bigger beds,” Tony grouses, shifting to lie on his side as Bruce squeezes in.

Bruce laughs, pulls Tony close. Tony melts into him, and Bruce buries his face in Tony’s hair, hiding his smile. “Well I’m pretty sure they never meant for two grown men to share it,” he murmurs, voice muffled by Tony’s hair.

Tony sighs, melodramatic as usual. “Just seems like a waste to ask dad to donate something so I can get a bigger bed,” he says.

“ _You_ get a bigger bed?” Bruce pulls away, incredulous. “Correct me if I’m wrong but I do believe you’re squatting in _my_ bedroom?”

Tony stretches and yawns, then settles back into Bruce’s arms. “You are wrong, this is our room now,” he says.

“Trouble,” Bruce says fondly, and, really—he’s got to stop this. And soon.

Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

Bruce had the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury.

Bruce had the misfortune of falling in love with him over the span of three years.

“Have you finished your applications?”

The question takes Bruce by surprise; he looks up at Tony with a start. It’s very unlike Tony, to plan ahead like this, to care at all for the future.

“What?”

Tony leans his hip on the desk. It’s a familiar sight, except now Tony’s comfortable walking around half-naked and Bruce hasn’t acclimated to it yet, so his distraction feels warranted.

“I got into MIT and Stanford,” Tony says, hefting himself up onto the desk and looking down at Bruce. “Got it in the mail today.”

Bruce looks up at Tony with a smirk. “Of course you did,” he says. He reaches up and pulls Tony into a quick kiss. “Congratulations.”

Tony kisses Bruce again, then leans back against the window.

But Bruce knows Tony—knows that won’t let this go unless he’s given a better point of focus. So Bruce stands, grabs Tony by the hips, pulls him close, and kisses him with much more intent.

He knows that Tony can tell when he’s distracted when they’re kissing, so he doesn’t think about how he never applied to study anywhere, because he has a plan. And he needs to stick to it.

He doesn’t think about what that would mean for them. He doesn’t think at all, instead slides his hands up Tony’s bare sides, tangles his fingers in Tony’s hair, and then slips off his own shirt.

* * *

Bruce is eight years old when he first starts tinkering with things in the house. He has his eyes set on an antique clock from the mantel over the fireplace. It’s large in his hands, dark wood and decorated with ornate swirls. He’s seen his father adjust the time, knows that the glass opens first. He sits himself down on the hearth and begins to take it apart.

Hours later, he’s sitting on the hearth with all the parts laid out in front of him. It presents a new, novel challenge. He furrows his brow and sets to putting it back together.

It’s much harder than he expects.

“Bruce?”

His father steps into the den. He tuts when he sees Bruce, fumbling with gears.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Bruce says, tears beginning to well up in his eyes, unbidden.

His father hushes him. “Let me show you,” he says, sitting down beside Bruce.

“If you take something apart, make sure you can put it back together,” his father says, slowly slotting the parts into place.

* * *

Bruce wakes up with a start. On instinct he reaches over, but the bed’s empty. He cracks open his eyes.

“Hey,” Tony says softly. “Just me.” He looks ethereal, bathed in the bright moonlight.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asks, pushing himself out of bed.

Tony beckons him over. “Look at the moon,” he says.

Bruce can tell something’s wrong; the air has a different quality, and Tony seems subdued. It’s not from lack of sleep.

He can tell that they’re on the precipice of a difficult conversation, and a brief flash of anger surges through him that he wasn’t the one to set the pace.

He stands beside Tony and looks up.

“Flower moon,” Tony says, lacing their fingers together. “It’s pretty.”

Bruce doesn’t hesitate when he turns to Tony and says, “You’re prettier.”

Tony looks away, a small smile on his lips. “Charmer.”

Something inside Bruce fractures and breaks. He feels a little wild with the need to piece it together in a way that makes sense—he can’t do this, not now, not yet, even if they’re graduating in a few weeks. It’s too soon, it’s not soon enough, he wants nothing more than to take apart all the clocks in the world just to make time stop.

He wants to keep this moment, keep the soft look on Tony’s face, hair tousled from sleep, looking as gorgeous as the day Bruce first laid eyes on him.

Bruce cups Tony’s jaw in his hand and kisses him, slow and deep.

He feels very helpless when he pulls away and whispers, “I love you.”

Tony smiles, bright and dazzling, and a small laugh bubbles out of his lips. “Thank god,” he breathes out, and kisses Bruce again, and again, and again.

They tumble back into bed, tugging off each other’s clothes, and Tony says, like an afterthought: “I love you too.”

When Tony’s lying naked in front of him, Bruce can’t help but feel that he’s taking Tony apart—piece by piece, unravelling him. The sounds spilling from Tony’s lips are addictive, and he knows they can’t be too loud, their hall mates are already giving them looks, but Tony’s a perfect sight, cheeks flushed and mouth parted open as he breathes.

So he keeps taking Tony apart with his hands, his fingers, his mouth. And when Tony comes, fingers digging into the meat of Bruce’s shoulder, Bruce can’t help but feel that at least, in this, he knows how to put Tony back together.

The moon is still high in the sky when they’re done, and Tony’s snoring softly beside him, wearing Bruce’s shirt.

Bruce feels very lovesick as he traces idle patterns on Tony’s arm.

He can’t afford this. The irony isn’t lost on him.

Still, he knows that nothing can come of it. He’ll hate himself even more if he follows through with his idle fancies of just being _Bruce Wayne._ He made a promise to his parents, standing in front of their graves. He made a promise to himself.

He’s too young to make such life-altering decisions like this. They’re too young to choose, to keep choosing each other.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

* * *

They have a week left before graduation. Everyone has slowly started to pack their things—even Tony, whose room has significantly more space now that he’s sent things back home.

Bruce doesn’t have much to put away. Tony had called him ascetic, once. Practical, Bruce rebutted. Still, Bruce feels a little hollow as he folds up his clothes.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you.” It’s a statement, not a question. Tony’s leaning against Bruce’s door frame and assessing him.

“To go back home, yes,” Bruce says, even if he knows that there’s no way out of this conversation, not anymore. He’d done well enough for a while, parrying Tony’s questions about what he wanted to do after graduating. _“A gap year?” “Overseas? You would be a Cambridge bitch, wouldn’t you.” “Do you have an uncle that you’re going to intern for?”_

Tony runs a hand through his hair, then slumps down on Bruce’s bed.

“Bruce.”

Bruce sighs, and sits on the chair by his desk.

Tony chews on his lip.

“I can’t—I can’t explain why I have to,” Bruce says, and he’s never felt this inarticulate in his life, and it’s infuriating.

“Not even to me?” Tony asks, and the hurt look in his eyes makes Bruce momentarily speechless.

If anything, these are more reasons as to why he can’t continue this. But rationality is rarely ever a balm for emotion.

Bruce moves and sits beside Tony, and winces when Tony moves to ensure space between them on his bed.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bruce says, because to try and hide from Tony seems futile. He’s always known Bruce, which has been the trouble.

Tony snorts. “Yeah.”

Bruce takes Tony’s hand in his. “I never wanted to hurt you,” Bruce tries again, but the words taste like ash on his tongue. “There are just other things I need to do.”

“Tell me,” Tony says, not meeting Bruce’s gaze, but not pulling his hand away from Bruce’s, either. Instead, he takes Bruce’s hand in his, rests it on his lap, and runs his fingers over the watch he’d bought for Bruce.

It gives Bruce a strange sense of comfort, even if he’s ripping his heart out of his chest. Time. He wishes he had more time.

“I can’t,” Bruce says. “I don’t even know where to begin, but.” Bruce sighs.

“Tony,” he tries. He takes Tony’s chin in his hand, turning Tony to face him. Tony keeps his eyes downcast, fiddling with the watch on Bruce’s wrist.

“After everything that’s happened to me, you’ve been the one good thing.”

At that, Tony finally look up at him.

“But?”

Bruce sighs again, and in a wild, desperate move, he kisses Tony.

“I love you,” Bruce whispers. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Tony pulls away. There’s a small, brittle smile on his lips.

“Just take care of yourself,” Tony says. He stands up, pats Bruce on the shoulder, and leaves.

He doesn’t even do Bruce the decency of slamming his door.

* * *

**Seven years later**

Bruce adjusts his tie in the mirror. Alfred was right, of course, as he always was. It was time that he played the part.

Not that he’d ever enjoyed his wealth, but after the seven years he’d spent caked in grime, foraging for scraps, it makes him feel queasy to be surrounded in extravagance.

There’s a pair of very large, dark blue balloons in the foyer, as if to remind all the guests that will arrive that he’s 25, now. Bruce can see them from his room, and he winces. It’s probably Alfred’s idea of a joke.

He can hear the low buzz of conversation downstairs as people continue to filter in. Bruce barely knows anyone on the list, but Lucius and Alfred had come together to solve it. In a way, Bruce feels like this is a debutante, about to be introduced to proper society. A chance, too, to keep acting like he hadn’t dropped off the grid for seven years.

Bruce turns before Alfred’s knuckles hit the door.

“Well, you look like a proper gentleman,” Alfred says, smiling. He reaches over and tilts Bruce’s tie. “Perfect.”

Bruce smirks, takes a sip of whisky. “Time to give them a show, then?” He asks, not bothering to wait for Alfred’s response as he walks out the door.

Bruce takes a moment at the landing of the staircase to observe the guests milling about. Then, slowly, as if feeling watched, the crowd quiets and they turn to him.

Bruce smiles, spreads his arms open.“Good evening, everyone,” he says, walking down the steps. He picks up a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “And happy birthday to me.”

It’s the older men and women who crowd around and greet him first; they touch his arms, run a hand down his back, as if needing physical proof of his existence. He lets them, doesn’t even flinch when they reach out. It had taken him time to reacclimate to crowds, but in his time away, he’s learned how to steel himself better.

After greeting and being introduced to the crème de la crème of Gotham—and some of its surrounding cities’—high society, Bruce makes his way to the Drawing Room, where a younger crowd has staked their claim. Sons and daughters of the people in the ballroom, and some upstarts, too, worthy of his attention in some way. Bruce smiles, clinks his glass of champagne against theirs in greeting. He’s lucky enough to manage to eat something, too, before he’s swept away by someone over-familiar just because at some point, they’d shared the same air.

He catches Alfred’s eye from time to time, who simply raises his eyebrows in response. He’s seen, too, that Bruce has been drinking a glass of water for every flute of champagne.

Alfred had been adamant that he take a night off from all the sneaking around he’d been doing—“At least wait for the armor, sir,” he’d said, and Bruce really, really hates it when people are right. Still, it’s not like a night off from the path he’s on means that he can be _reckless_.

Or, god forbid, that he have fun.

Bruce finally finds his way outside, where there are small pockets of people casually chatting and smoking cigarettes. Some of them nod at him and call him over, but Bruce waves them off. He came outside to take a breath, and he lets his gaze sweep over the people there, dressed to impress and beautiful in the moonlight.

His gaze catches at something— _someone_ vaguely familiar. He inclines his neck, tries to see who he is. He’s talking to a small group, as well, and they’re nodding and paying attention, looking away only to tap cigarette ash into a cup.

Even from this distance, Bruce begins to feel the first signs of worry coupled with a faint sense of disbelief.

Bruce sets his glass down by the bannister, and keeps himself in check. He fights against the instinct of rushing across the veranda to turn the man around, see for himself.

With a little difficulty, he walks casually to the other end of the space. He stops right behind the man, and now there’s barely a shred of doubt as to who it is.

“Tony?”

The man turns, and it _is_ him, and for a brief moment time seems to slow down as Bruce takes it in. Tony Stark. Here, in the manor, standing in front of Bruce. Tony’s grown into himself, more muscular than Bruce remembers, and he’s grown out his facial hair. But his eyes are the same; just as bright and beautiful.

Bruce wants to reach out, but he doesn’t.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Brucie,” he says, pulling Bruce into a quick hug. “You’re alive!”

He says it like a joke, but Bruce knows better.

Bruce has seen the letters, left unanswered and then diminishing as the years passed. Still, it was a thick enough bundle to make Bruce wince when he saw it, balanced precariously on his desk.

Earlier, Alfred had told him he had a reputation to preserve. Ironic, given that his current reputation is simply “alive.” Still, Bruce recognizes that he and Tony will always be actors on a stage. Now it’s time for his line.

“Tony, god, I didn’t know you were coming!” Bruce drapes an arm over Tony’s shoulders, turns to smile at the men he was speaking to. “Did he tell you that we went to school together?”

“Oh of course you did! You are the same age, after all,” the man says, smiling at them. “What kind of trouble did Tony get you into, back then?”

The question is innocuous enough, but it seems to take them both by surprise. At least, if the sudden stiffness in Tony’s shoulders is anything to go by.

Bruce barks out a laugh. “Oh, absolutely tons of trouble,” he says, slapping Tony’s shoulder. He laughs a bit more, even if he wants to break.

Before Tony or the man can speak, another man in their group pipes up. “Bruce, your watch, it’s absolutely stunning. Is it a classic?”

Dread drops like a hot stone in Bruce’s gut. He feels like a fool, hates that he had this party, hates, somehow, that Tony’s here. “Oh, just a few years old,” Bruce says, slipping his hand off Tony’s shoulder and extending his wrist.

He sees Tony’s gaze follow, notices the way he clenches his jaw when he sees that Bruce is wearing the watch Tony had bought for him, all those years ago. Not that Bruce was expecting to see Tony here, or that he wore it out of a sense of sentimentality; he just didn’t want to wear anything of his father’s, and this was the first one he’d seen in his drawer.

For the first time tonight, Bruce feels embarrassed. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but he doesn’t let it show, instead stays silent as the man regards his wrist.

“Well, we won’t keep you two any longer, I’m sure you’d like to catch up,” the other man says, eyes on Tony as he speaks.

And just like that, they’re alone.

Tony turns to Bruce, eyebrow arched.

Bruce breathes out very slowly.

“Tony,” he says, again, just so he actually says something to fill the silence between them.

Tony’s eyebrow stays arched. “Bruce,” he says.

Bruce doesn’t even know where to begin, first with an apology, or an explanation, or just to ask how Tony has been.

Of course, his manners kick in and he says, “I’m sorry about your parents.”

Tony huffs out a laugh. “So you heard about it.”

Bruce bristles at the implication. “Only when I got back,” he says.

“And where exactly did you get back from?” Tony asks. He waves a waiter over and downs half the glass of champagne when he gets it. Then he takes another glass, as if Bruce would ever run out of liquor to hand out at his own birthday.

When the waiter leaves, Bruce belatedly realizes Tony’s brilliance. At least he has something to do with his hands.

“Everywhere,” Bruce says, because it’s the truth.

Tony rolls his eyes.

“Do you want to speak somewhere more private?” Bruce asks, casting a cautionary glance around them. He still doesn’t really know what to say to Tony, but he does know he doesn’t want to do it in view of everyone at the party.

Tony finishes his drink. “Find me after everyone sings Happy Birthday,” Tony says, already beginning to walk away.

“I don’t _care_ about my birthday!” Bruce hisses.

“Well, I do. And I want to eat cake.”

Bruce wants to reach out and shake him, and then wants to ask for private lessons in flippancy.

“Fine,” Bruce relents, and takes the long way ‘round to enter the manor, not trusting himself to be beside Tony until they’ve spoken properly.

* * *

Bruce tries to look casual as he looks around the room for Tony. Waiters had handed out slices of cake and offered cups of coffee after they’d greeted him, and now Bruce can finally focus on Tony.

He knows he should start with an apology for all the missed letters, explain that Alfred had no way to get them to him. What he can’t figure out is what to tell Tony. Because a handful of gossips _had_ asked where Bruce had disappeared to, and why for so long. But they were content to hear Bruce’s lie, that he’d explored the world and travelled without a forwarding address. It made him sound terribly entitled and very rich, which he knew is what they wanted proof of, anyway.

Bruce knows, however, that Tony will see right through him. Which has always been the trouble.

Again, Bruce feels the old hesitation. For a moment he considers stopping his search, just letting it go and letting Tony fully exit his life. He can’t have someone like Tony and not tell him the whole truth of it. But at the same time, it’s not like Tony’s asking to be shouldered with the burden of Bruce’s mission.

There’s too much at stake for Bruce to leave anything to chance. And what has Tony Stark been, other than a chance? A chance for a regular life, for happiness, for _love_ —all things that Bruce knew he didn’t need, much less deserve.

With that, Bruce drops his gaze and gives up his search. There’s no point mending things when he knows he’ll have to break them—again. He can’t do that to Tony. He won’t.

Bruce doesn’t care to be a good host anymore, and he shrugs at Alfred as he walks out of the ballroom and up to his study. He can still hear the party going on in full swing, downstairs. Alfred had hired a jazz band, and Bruce smiles a little to himself, thinking that this is a little too much like The Great Gatsby for his liking.

Bruce turns to the door before it opens, and nearly takes a step back when Tony enters.

“Running away from me again?” Tony asks, setting down his glass. “Starting to think you really want nothing to do with me.”

Bruce huffs out a breath. “No,” he admits, but can’t bring himself to say more.

Tony shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie, then sits on the couch. “Nice house,” he says.

Bruce wants to tell him to just say his piece and get out. It’s uncharitable, but it’s what’s needed. He can’t afford to have Tony around, back in his life.

“Thank you,” Bruce mutters, sitting down on the chair opposite Tony.

Tony looks at him expectantly.

Bruce frowns.

“Wow,” Tony says, after a moment. “I thought that you were already pretty taciturn when we were teenagers, but I guess seven years has just made you so much better at it.”

Bruce huffs, just to prove Tony’s point. Then Tony laughs, and Bruce can’t help crack a smile because as much as he’s loath to admit it, he’s missed Tony. Of everything he’d left behind, Tony was one bright spot that stayed, no matter how much of Bruce’s world was shrouded in darkness.

“God, this is fucking weird,” Tony says, running a hand down his face. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

Bruce leans back in his chair. “Did you really think I was dead?” he asks.

“After a year of not hearing back—and the news about you, Bruce. It was easier to think that.”

Bruce is quiet. It’s not that he didn’t consider what people would think, but it just wasn’t a priority. And even when his thoughts strayed to Tony, it’s almost as if he imagined that Tony had just stayed in place. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. Tony had lost his parents, and Bruce hadn’t been there for him, and—Bruce’s thoughts are interrupted when Tony gets up and moves to stand in front of him.

“Care to share your thoughts with the class?” Tony asks. His voice is rough, his cheeks tinged pink just like they always did when he had a bit to drink.

Bruce isn’t ready for this—doubts he ever will be, no matter how much time in the world he had to prepare to face Tony Stark again after disappearing and returning as if nothing had happened.

“Tony,” Bruce says, tearing his gaze away from Tony’s. “I can’t.”

Tony tuts, then sits down on the arm of the chair. He drapes a leg over Bruce’s. It’s a significant breach of space, and Bruce wants nothing more than to lean into it, to take Tony by the hips and sit him on his lap.

It’s almost as if no time has passed between them.

It’s terrifying.

“Tony,” Bruce says again, feeling uncomfortably inarticulate. Except Tony’s leg is warm against his, and Bruce can smell his cologne. He keeps his eyes fixed on the carpet.

Tony sighs, reaches over and takes Bruce’s chin in his hand. The touch nearly jolts Bruce out of his seat, but he wrenches his face away. “I can’t,” he whispers, because he can _feel_ his resolve crumbling in the way only Tony can make it.

Tony leans down, rests his hand against Bruce’s chest.

“Tell me to go,” he says.

Bruce shakes his head. He doesn’t trust his voice. He wishes he could blame his behavior on the champagne, or something.

Tony takes a deep breath, and takes Bruce’s chin in his hand again. He tilts Bruce’s head up.

“Tell me to stop,” Tony says, leaning close.

Bruce can feel Tony’s breath on his cheek. They’re so close. Tony looks so much older, much more like a man than the boy he’d left seven years ago. But his eyes are the same, warm and inviting and unbelievably kind.

Bruce reaches up, touches Tony’s cheek, and kisses him.

Several things happen, seemingly all at once. First, Bruce finally does take Tony’s hips and sits him down on his lap; it’s a tight fit, the chair was meant for one, but Tony makes it work, wriggling closer to Bruce and slotting their hips together. Second, Tony tangles his fingers in Bruce’s hair, slides his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, and Bruce feels the delicious burn of Tony’s beard on his chin.

Third, Bruce feels Tony getting hard, his cock rubbing against Bruce’s stomach, and Bruce finally has use for all those push ups. He lifts Tony up, making Tony gasp, and deposits Tony on the couch.

“Holy _fuck_ , Wayne,” Tony breathes out, looking close to reverent. “What the hell have you been lifting?”

Bruce responds by kissing him, and god, what a relief it is, to kiss Tony. To have Tony writhing under him, struggling to get Bruce’s jacket off. To have Tony here at all. He feels wild, reckless, and the realization comes so quickly then he pulls away with a huff of breath.

“No,” Tony says, scrambling to sit up and wrap his arms around Bruce’s waist. “No.” He strips off Bruce’s jacket. “Stop thinking.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, shaking his head and moving to clamber off the couch.

“Stop—” Tony says, a desperate edge to his voice. “Please, Bruce, _god_ ,” he takes Bruce’s hands in his, and Bruce’s heart breaks, a little, all over again.

“You know me.” The admission tumbles out of Bruce’s mouth before he can stop it. He tugs his hand away from Tony’s and stands.

Tony shrinks back. “Most people would say that was a good thing,” he says.

Bruce huffs. “You and I both know we’re not most people.”

Tony bites his lip, looks away. “Why’d you wear the watch?”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking,” Bruce says, because it’s true. Even if maybe his subconscious had something to do with it.

Tony looks back at him.

“Sure.” With his tone, Tony means: _liar_.

“We can’t do this,” Bruce says, looking away, now. “I can’t.”

“But you want to.” It’s not a question. Tony knows him too well. Has always known him too well. It makes Bruce feel like he’s a liability.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Bruce says, trying to make his voice firmer than he feels.

“You don’t know what I want,” Tony says, looking angry. “You assume too much.”

“I can’t give you anything,” Bruce amends. “You deserve—”

“Don’t fucking use a line on me,” Tony snaps.

Bruce is momentarily taken aback. He’s never used lines on _anyone_ , has never had the practice to, god, doesn’t Tony know that he’s been alone for the better half of a decade. Doesn’t Tony know that Bruce has thought of no one else?

Of course not. Of course not. Bruce hadn’t told him anything.

“I mean it,” Bruce says, looking at Tony now, as if to hammer in the point. “You deserve… you deserve everything. All the good things in the world, Tony.”

“I don’t care about what I deserve,” Tony says fiercely, pushing himself up from the couch and standing in front of Bruce so they’re almost chest to chest. He takes a deep breath then steps away.

“God, you drive me fucking insane,” Tony hisses. “You can’t break up with me and disappear for ten years and then come back looking like—“ Tony gestures at Bruce, looking at him helplessly. “Like _that_ and you offer _no_ explanation, not even a fucking apology and—” Tony stops and takes a deep breath.

“And you’re still a fantastic kisser, so none of this is fair. You’re being unfair.”

“I’m sorry,” Bruce says. He knows it’s not enough. It never will be.

“For _what_?” Tony explodes. “God, Bruce, just.” Tony runs a hand through his hair.

“Everything,” Bruce says. He wants to reach out, to take Tony into his arms, apologize in between kisses, but he can’t put Tony through this again.

Tony sighs. “I’ve never stopped wanting you, even if I tried to convince myself you were really gone. You’re—god. Bruce.”

The silence between them is broken only by the stray sounds of whooping from the party downstairs.

“Well.” Tony says, straightening up. “I believe I’ve embarrassed myself enough tonight.”

Bruce nods. He wants to do so much more, wants to reassure Tony, but he can’t. It’s too selfish.

“I just want to understand why…” Tony trails off. “Never mind.”

Bruce watches as Tony walks to the door, picking up his glass and downing the rest of his drink before he leaves.

* * *

Bruce is invited to a Maria Stark Foundation event in New York. The immature, petulant side of Bruce refuses to go, insisting that Batman needs to go on patrol. But the other side of Bruce, who remembers the kind woman who’d always cut the tension over dinner that one Christmas he’d spent in their home, the side of Bruce who remembers that this foundation was set up after she’d died too soon, wins out.

Bruce doesn’t wear the watch. He doesn’t bring a date, either, much to Alfred’s chagrin. (“Can’t you at least _pretend_ you’re interested in someone?”)

When Bruce arrives, the party is in full swing. It’s a familiar crowd at this point, and he nods in greeting as he makes his way around the room. Propriety requires that he at least say hello to Tony, before penning in a donation.

Bruce has gone two around the ballroom twice without spotting Tony. He’s already annoyed at having to spend more time here than needed, and his mood is sour from having to smile through all the greetings and small talk.

Bruce finally spots a woman who looks a little harried, looking around the room and searching for someone as she clutches a clipboard to her chest.

“Excuse me,” Bruce says, using his most winning smile on her. “Would you know where Tony is?”

“Mr. Wayne,” She says, her smile brittle. For a moment, Bruce feels like she knows the answer but is at odds at sharing it with him. “I—uh, I believe he’s in the billiards room.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Bruce says graciously, before walking in that direction.

He opens the door and his reaction is so immediate that he’s unable to stop himself from wrinkling his nose. The air is heavy with the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke, coupled with loud, raucous laughter.

Then, Bruce’s eyes land on Tony, bent over the billiards table, his tuxedo pants stretched tantalizingly over his ass.

Bruce tears his gaze away and clears his throat.

The sound makes Tony’s billiard cue snag on the cloth. “Oh for _fuck’s sake_ ,” Tony swears, turning around on wobbly legs. “Oh. It’s you.”

Tony is drunk, that much is immediately evident. Bruce takes a quick glance around the room and can tell too that Tony’s getting fleeced.

Bruce leans against the door, adopts a more lackadaisical attitude. “Tony,” he says, a dumb smile on his face. “I got here an hour ago.”

“So?” Tony sneers. He turns back to the table and leans against his cue as another man handily makes a shot. He bends down unsteadily to pick up his drink from a table, and drinks it all in one go.

Bruce tilts his head, tentatively steps closer to Tony, and takes the bottle of whisky away. “Hey,” Bruce murmurs, disregarding the other players in the room. Other people are playing cards, laughing at something.

“Hey yourself,” Tony says petulantly. He tries to reach over and take the bottle from Bruce’s hand, but Bruce moves away.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Bruce says softly, taking Tony’s elbow in his other hand. “Let’s get you some water, huh?”

“No, and no,” Tony says, turning away to presumably look for something else to drink.

“Hey Tony, come on,” one of the men says, young and blonde and rakish.

“Yeah, Tony. He bothering you?” asks another man, who looked like the type to wear a cardigan over his shoulders.

“We’re fine,” Bruce says, with a bit more edge to his voice than necessary.

“News to me,” Tony mutters. He makes another half-hearted attempt for the bottle in Bruce’s hands before giving up.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes out. “I’m out. I’m getting something to drink.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, following him outside and steering him towards the kitchen—better for them both that the help see this, rather than the massive crowd outside. “Let me take you home.”

Tony blinks up at him blearily, then smiles. “Yours or mine, big boy?” he asks, then laughs.

“Ugh,” Bruce says. “Enough. Come on.” He asks a waitress the way to the back door, and practically drags Tony out—the alcohol has settled, it seems, and Tony’s so drunk he’s barely able to keep himself up.

“Stop,” Tony groans. It’s a good thing they’ve made it out the door, and Tony turns away to vomit onto the pavement.

Bruce tuts. “You still haven’t learned how to hold your liquor,” he says, handing Tony his handkerchief.

“Maybe it’s because I didn’t have your good influence to keep me in check,” Tony bites out, and Bruce’s step falters, nearly sending them sprawling.

He rights them back up. He remembers what his father said, about clocks and things he’d taken apart and—Bruce shakes his head to clear it, and focuses on the task at hand.

“Wait here,” Bruce says, pushing Tony down on an air conditioning unit. He steps back onto the street, waves down a valet. “Get me my car,” he says, “and park it right here.”

The man must see the tension Bruce is holding in his jaw because he nearly runs to the garage.

Bruce goes back to find Tony doubled over, dry-heaving. He reaches over and rubs his back, anxious enough to let it show by how he taps his foot against the floor.

“Fuck,” Tony groans, leaning back and hitting his head against the wall. “Ugh.”

Bruce moves his hand from Tony’s back to his arm, still stroking as if it provides comfort. “I’ll get you home soon.”

“I don’t want to go home,” Tony whines, and he sounds the way he did when they were in high school together. It makes Bruce laugh, even if everything’s pretty horrible. Bruce can’t help but feel a little overprotective, remembering the men playing pool with Tony earlier, remembering the way they looked at him.

The valet arrives and helps Bruce lead Tony to his car. He tips him generously, even if he knows it won’t do much to stop this from being gossiped about.

Tony falls asleep almost as soon as he’s seated properly.

Bruce only looks over once just to check how he’s doing, when Tony mumbles, “I want Mcdonalds.”

Bruce huffs out a laugh. “Cheeseburger?”

“Mm,” Tony hums. “Fries. Ice cream.”

“You sure you can keep it down?”

Tony’s eyes are closed, and he clumsily draws an X over his heart. “I promise.”

Bruce laughs again, then drives through and gets Tony’s order.

Tony wakes up to the smell of greasy meat. “Oh,” he says, brightening when he looks down at his lap and sees the paper bag. “You really _do_ love me, don’t you,” he says, tearing the bag open and stuffing his face with fries.

Bruce feels his eye twitch at Tony’s words. “Enough to drive my Lamborghini through a Mcdonald’s at midnight for you,” he says, smiling. He keeps his eyes on the road, but doesn’t miss Tony stiffening—with realization, probably, of his words—then relaxing when he sees that Bruce hasn’t reacted.

Tony tucks into his meal quietly, which is how Bruce knows that Tony’s still a little drunk. Tony bites into his burger and moans.

“Want some?” He asks, around a mouthful of food.

“No thanks,” Bruce says. They’re almost at Tony’s house.

Tony looks out the window. “Not here,” he says.

“Huh?”

“I don’t want to go home,” Tony says, putting his food down. “Can’t you drive around a little more?”

“You need something more than junk food and Coke,” Bruce says.

“Not now,” Tony mumbles. It makes Bruce ache with the need to take care of him, to pull him close and run his hand through Tony’s hair.

“Okay,” Bruce sighs, relenting.

“I want to lie down,” Tony says, reclining his seat.

Bruce gets the hint, only because missing it would be equal to missing a truck on a two-lane road. So he drives home to Gotham.

* * *

Bruce leads Tony up the East Wing and deposits him inside the first guest room they see. Tony flops onto the bed with a groan and kicks off his shoes. Bruce sighs and flips him over, undoes his bowtie and unfastens the first two buttons of his shirt. Then he takes off Tony’s cufflinks and watch, setting them down on the side table.

Bruce sighs, gets up, changes into his pajamas, and goes downstairs to get Tony something to drink.

Tony has circled back to the sleepy phase of his drunkenness, only waking up when Bruce plies him with a glass of water mixed with electrolytes.

Bruce sits beside Tony as Tony downs the glass, and pushes him gently onto the bed. “Now you get to lie down,” he says, and he doesn’t bother to hide how fond he sounds anymore. It’s three in the morning and much as he hates to admit it, he’s still human.

Tony hums in response, and wraps his fingers around Bruce’s wrist. “Stay,” he says, eyes closed, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Tony…” Bruce says, trying to tug his wrist away as gently as he can.

“Just tonight,” Tony murmurs. “Keep your clothes on and everything.”

Bruce bites his lip.

“No strings attached,” Tony whispers, just as he shifts to make more room for Bruce. He pats the bed.

Bruce sighs and lies down.

“Alfred is going to have _so much_ to say about this,” Bruce says, just as Tony turns to his side and drapes his arm over Bruce’s waist.

“So much,” Tony agrees, and falls asleep.

* * *

Bruce wakes up with a jolt when sunlight hits his face.

“Good afternoon, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, glancing at him over his shoulder.

Beside him, Tony groans piteously.

“And good afternoon to you too, Mr. Stark.” Bruce doesn’t have to open his eyes to see the smirk on Alfred’s lips.

“Shall I bring up breakfast?”

Tony groans again, and pulls a pillow to cover his face.

Bruce sits up and stretches. “We’ll be downstairs in a moment,” he says.

“I’ve prepared some clothes for Mr. Stark,” Alfred says, gesturing to some of Bruce’s old clothes.

Bruce nods his thanks, and lies back down when Alfred leaves the room.

“Wake up,” Bruce says, shaking Tony gently.

“I’d rather die,” Tony grunts, his voice muffled by the pillow. “Tell Alfred I’ve died.”

“But he’s already prepared a meal for us,” Bruce teases. “And if we don’t eat, then we’ll both be dead.”

Tony makes another pathetic sound before turning over and slowly slithering off the bed. Bruce watches as Tony stumbles around the room and into the bathroom, before going to his room to wash his face and put on a robe.

Tony grips the bannister of the stairs as they walk down to the small dining room. His face is still a little pale with his hangover, and he slumps over in his chair while waiting for Alfred to bring in the food.

“I’ve missed having a butler,” Tony says, propping his head up with his hand as he rests his elbow on the table.

“Did Jarvis—”

“Yeah, before mom and dad.”

“Oh,” Bruce says. It’s a bit unnerving, how natural it is for him to reach out and touch the back of Tony’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

Tony waves him off. “Happens.”

He skewers his pancake on his fork and lifts it up, close to his face. For a brief moment, Bruce worries that he’ll just bite into it.

“Have you—” Bruce starts, then pauses to think of the best way to phrase his question. _Have you been alone all this time? Who was with you, when your parents died? Don’t you have friends? Is this why you didn’t want to go home?_

Bruce decides not to ask, just because he knows Tony will throw the questions right back at him. It’s too early in the day for a conversation like that.

Tony puts his pancake down and slices it up slowly, his motor functions still relatively impeded.

Alfred had also very kindly left an aspirin on a small saucer, which Tony drinks after a few bites of food.

“Should call my driver,” he says.

“Oh,” Bruce says. “Okay.”

Tony looks up at him sharply. His eyes are still a little bleary. He says, “Unless you want me to stay.”

Bruce shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

Tony snorts.

But he doesn’t leave, and Bruce can’t say he isn’t _happy_ about it.

“Is this shirt from our Roxbury days?” Tony asks, looking down at his shirt, more alert now that he’s had a cup of coffee. It’s a nice day, so they’d decided to sit outside by the pool.

“I think so,” Bruce says, glancing at Tony and then looking away. He’s been stealing glances all morning; he’s ashamed of what it does to him, seeing Tony wearing his clothes. It’s a tight fit, even if Bruce did row crew in boarding school. Bruce resolutely does not stare at the way the fabric is stretched over Tony’s biceps.

Tony huffs out a laugh, reclines on the lounge chair, and crosses his ankles.

“Am I ever going to know where you’ve been?” He asks, apropos of nothing.

Bruce mirrors him, keeps his eyes on the pool, the manicured south lawn.

“Have you considered,” Bruce pauses and takes a sip of his coffee. “That that’s why nothing can happen between us?”

Tony snorts. “I didn’t realize my curiosity was so insufferable.”

“It’s not that and you know it,” Bruce snaps. He’s not usually this easily vexed, but maybe it’s the weather. Maybe it’s because Tony looks good wearing his clothes and Bruce knows he’d look better without them. Maybe it’s because last night, Bruce had the best sleep he’s had in years.

“Honestly Bruce, I don’t know shit right now and it’s pissing me off.” Tony stands, drinks down the rest of his coffee, and Bruce watches his throat work. He wants—he wants. He’s not allowed to want.

Tony meets Bruce’s gaze and takes off his shirt.

Bruce sits up with a jolt, then Tony shimmies out of Bruce’s sweatpants and Bruce feels the breath catch in his throat. He watches, speechless, as Tony wades into the pool.

Bruce blinks. Then he toes off his slippers, rolls up his pants, and dips his feet into the water.

Tony’s doing laps, and Bruce stares, transfixed, for the first few strokes.

“Cheap tactics, Stark,” Bruce shouts, when Tony’s head bobs above the water.

Tony turns to Bruce and winks. “It’s working, though,” he says, swimming up to Bruce. He crosses his arms over the edge of the pool and looks up at him.

“So,” Tony says. “Now that I’ve had a moment to cool my head.”

Bruce looks at him skeptically.

“I know you want me,” Tony says, confident in a way that Bruce can only ever hope to imitate. “And you know I want you,” he adds, dipping his hand into the water just to flick some onto Bruce, as if Bruce’s attention was wavering.

Bruce huffs, dips his hand into the water, and pours some of it on top of Tony’s head in retaliation.

“If you don’t want to tell me your shit, then don’t,” Tony says.

“What, that easy?” Bruce asks, frowning.

Tony sighs, loud and melodramatic. “Yes, Bruce. That’s what I’ve been trying to say since you first got back.” He lifts his hand, draws patterns on Bruce’s thigh with the water dripping off of his fingertips.

It tickles, and Bruce grabs his wrist to stop the movement.

“But you had to go through your mandatory hours of brooding,” Tony says, meeting Bruce’s gaze, challenging. “I’ve waited long enough, Bruce. If you don’t want this, then stop letting me into your house.”

Bruce sighs. “I wasn’t brooding.”

Tony snorts, but stays silent, waiting for Bruce to say more. Tony makes another indignant sound, wrenches his hand away from Bruce’s, and plants both hands firmly on either side of Bruce’s knees.

Bruce’s eyes flick to Tony’s arms, and he watches droplets of water slide down his biceps as Tony lifts himself up so he’s face to face with Tony.

“Just kiss me already,” Tony says.

Bruce is helpless to deny him.

Maybe he always has been.

For the first time in his life, Bruce feels a strange spark of happiness despite how hopeless this is. Bruce lifts Tony up and out of the pool, onto his lap, kissing him deeply.

He’s never going to have enough time. But with Tony’s hands in his hair, gripping his shoulders, his nose bumping against Bruce’s when the pull away—Bruce figures, there are few precious things worth spending time on.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


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